


in part to the glass

by flirtygaybrit



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, But also, Dildos, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23057662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: Of all the things Geralt keeps in his Witcher's trunk, the one Jaskier is most excited to test is long, smooth, and made of polished stone. Or glass. Black marble?Something.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 414





	in part to the glass

It looked like obsidian.

“Looks like obsidian,” Jaskier said decisively, eyeing the polished, gleaming thing with a single eye squeezed shut. Geralt gave an unhelpful half-shrug in his periphery. “Or maybe tour—black onyx? Zircon? No. Ah, well. Long as it gets the job done. It’s quite lovely, though. Sturdy-looking. Dwarven make?”

Jaskier had the long, smooth, suggestively phallic stone halfway to his mouth when Geralt plucked it from his fingers and placed it pointedly on the bed, and so did not get the opportunity to determine with his teeth whether it was diamond-grade. It didn’t disappoint him; there were more pressing things at hand, and anyway he knew now precisely which innocuous velvet pouch it resided in in Geralt’s trunk of toys and tinctures, and had plans to investigate the contents of the box further when his attention was not being immediately demanded.

“You’re no fun at all,” he said, and flopped back against the meagre pile of pillows that he’d built up near the head of the mattress; most had been long ago flattened by previous occupants of this bed, but it was better than sleeping on the ground, as he and Geralt had for the previous three nights, huddled together as the late autumn air took on a winter chill and reminded him that traveling beggars could not be traveling choosers. Why, with a closed door and a roaring fire and a single dry blanket underneath him that did not smell of horse and wet, Jaskier practically felt like a king. “At least tell me you’ve tested that. I won’t be held responsible if that thing shatters while we’re using it.”

“It won’t. And you wouldn’t want to put it in your mouth if you knew where it’s been,” Geralt said, not unsuggestively. Jaskier’s expression grew devious.

“Maybe so, but the rest of you has been in some unscrupulous places too, and I’m still willing to... oh, come here, you, and put those warm hands on me already. I’m tired of all of this indirect flirting.”

Had the meaning in his smug half-grin been unclear, somehow, anyone could have figured out what he meant simply by observing the way he reached for Geralt and then enveloped him in all the ways one could: his arms looped lazily around the Witcher’s shoulders and his ankles crossed delicately behind Geralt’s back as the Witcher sank down atop him, and he sighed against Geralt’s mouth and was even particularly receptive to his tongue for a time. The indirect flirting had been preceded by some indirect fingering, obviously, which was only indirect in the sense that it had taken the better part of an hour and a detour through some incredibly lovely mouth-work to get to this point. 

Not that Jaskier was complaining. What the hell, they weren’t in a rush. The snow had finally arrived in a sweeping wall of white and in a matter of hours had blocked the only road out of the sleepy little village near this particular bend in the Yaruga, which meant that until the storm passed, at least, they had all the time in the world to flirt and finger and fuck in relative luxury, with their flattened pillows and clean bed linens.

There was a minor discomfort as Geralt settled against Jaskier, sheathing himself and allowing a moment of stillness for each to acclimate. Jaskier ran his fingers mindlessly through Geralt’s hair and sighed; further down, he could almost feel the ghosts of welts from where he’d clawed up Geralt’s back a few nights prior. A closed door was lovely, but sometimes the cover of underbrush had to suffice, and sometimes heat had to be generated out there in the wild, and who could blame him? Geralt had the libido of a wild stallion, and Jaskier had no choice but to take a few liberties with the metaphor when it came to riding and reining.

“Mm, that’s perfect. Thank you. Do you want me to get the, er... tourmaline? Jet? Ooh, I hope I’m getting colder. Please don’t tell me it’s something fossilized.”

Geralt’s mouth was occupied, doing something with his tongue and teeth to a perfectly nice patch of Jaskier’s skin that the bard would proudly display the day after to the inn’s patrons, but he took a moment once he began to move to lift his head and press a kiss to Jaskier‘s jaw and murmur, “Oil first. Then you can play.”

His hips rocked forward; his body was like a coiled spring in a clockwork machine, powerful and precise, and he pressed Jaskier against the bed with the same careful, measured motion that Witchers often reserved only for swordsmanship. It was better than the fingering; Jaskier rolled his eyes back into his head and enjoyed Geralt’s commitment to precision.

It had been entirely accidental the first time he’d discovered what Geralt liked—not the rowdy, earth-shattering sex, nope, that had simply been an inevitability. No, what had been discovered by accident was that Geralt’s infamous reluctance to commit to any one particular decision extended to his sexual preferences. It went like this: they were lovemaking, as they often did, with Jaskier musing about the wicked power that he wielded with Geralt’s arse gripped firmly in both hands—the reins, as it were, being an apt comparison given that Geralt had responded to the pressure like a well-trained horse and had broken into a metaphorical gallop—and oh, Jaskier had paid the price for that discovery over the course of several days, but at the time he’d kneaded and applied more careful pressure, seeking out whatever other hidden mechanisms that Geralt had neglected to mention would arouse more primal desires. He’d been soaring high already, and knowing that lust drove men to do things that they might never speak of come morning, had tried to curl his fingers inward, and Geralt hadn’t even given him time to dig in his heels after that.

The stallion, if one preferred to use that metaphor, had been thoroughly broken in since.

Only later had Jaskier learned to properly ride out the rest of the frenzy. Geralt was not shy about his response... not that he’d ever been shy about anything, considering the places his tongue, fingers, and cock had been. Now, Jaskier was skilled enough control the pace without having to truly exert himself, and this was a privilege he gladly abused even now—for he couldn’t be certain, but he thought maybe it even made Geralt harder in the moment to be directed in such a manner, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with that as far as Jaskier could tell.

Oil first, he thought, and removed his nails from the dents he was leaving in Geralt’s skin.

He tried to be quick and efficient. Geralt was quite unhurried, pacing himself, stimulating neither punishingly nor sparingly, and the noise he muffled against Jaskier’s neck at the first long stroke of Jaskier’s finger was the sort that could be felt deep in one’s bones. Yes, this was what he wanted. This was what the onyx-obsidian-god-only-knew-what-material was for. Jaskier continued to wonder about the origins of the gemstone implement as he worked with his fingers, matching Geralt’s pace to the best of his ability to maximize the sensation, and he soon lost himself in the rhythm they had settled into; he slid his fingers slowly over Geralt’s skin to first spread the oil, then to press it in, shallow, deep, slow, steady.

Geralt’s smooth motion faltered. His breath was hot on Jaskier’s shoulder, and Jaskier kissed and nudged his nose against Geralt’s temple, urging him up, seeking his mouth for the first long kiss that would spark the air in his chest; the second would come with the next finger, and Geralt grunted and moved faster for only a moment. Jaskier, the puppeteer, opened his fingers and dug his heel into Geralt’s back, then gentled him, experimenting somewhat gleefully with angles, utterly drunk on the way Geralt’s rhythm fell quickly out of pace with his own.

At some point, the oblong obsidian had rolled into the dip in the bed and settled against Jaskier’s thigh. One side of it had warmed slowly and unobtrusively against his skin, and as he drew it lazily over Geralt’s spine to remind him that he had more yet to look forward to, Geralt shuddered and bit at his jaw and sounded, for the first time, like he was very much not in control.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Jaskier murmured. He turned the rounded end warm-side down and slid it along the slick track he’d left, not yet pressing in but simply pressing against; Geralt made a greedy sound and, spreading his thighs somewhat, rocked back against Jaskier’s hand, shivering at the cool stone when Jaskier rotated it with his fingers, careful not to let it slide out of his grip. The backward motion left Jaskier only half-full himself, but for the way Geralt moaned without fully meeting his gaze, wanton and aching as much to be fucked as to drive himself into the warm body that was already willing to have him, the loss was more than acceptable.

Jaskier felt Geralt’s thighs nearly trembling between his own. He couldn’t deny him the opportunity to chase that pleasure.

“You’ll need to tell me if you’re sure,” Jaskier said softly. He carded his free fingers through Geralt’s hair, supporting his head, tilting his face up just enough to kiss his temple again. “It’s your choice. I can just do this if you like.”

“Do it,” Geralt said with hardly a breath of hesitation. His voice had taken on a distinctly Witcher-like quality, full of steel focus and certainty; sex and sexual satisfaction, for people like Geralt, had the pleasant benefit of sharpening the senses, arousing the nervous system, and acting overall as a physiological stimulant. Jaskier was in control, but Geralt was still buried in him, still pinning him in place, still in possession of two free hands. Jaskier been mounted by a wolf with slavering jaws, and it was his job to ensure he remained until the hunger was sated, and to slip between the creature’s teeth when the time was right.

“Ask nicely.”

“Fuck me,” Geralt demanded in a whisper.

All went still. Geralt’s breath hitched as the smooth, rounded edge of the stone met resistance, and he shook between Jaskier’s open thighs with his face lowered just out of sight and his back curved submissively.

Jaskier pressed gently and gentler still. Precious seconds passed, and finally Geralt gave way. His mouth opened soundlessly against Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier listened carefully, but Geralt was not speaking in a way that could be heard.

“Good,” Jaskier whispered. He smoothed his free hand over Geralt’s back and felt skin, scars, crescent-shaped indentations, the ghosts of welts. “Good. Take your time.”

This was not a sensation familiar to the bard. Geralt himself was familiar, all the impressive weight of him with all of his techniques, but Geralt’s body had become a new instrument under Jaskier’s hands; as Jaskier twisted his hand and rotated the implement, urging Geralt to move flush against his body to ease the strain on his wrist and to feel more of Geralt’s sweaty front against his own, Geralt made a sound so low in his throat it sounded as if it had been wrung from a place deep within those Witcher’s lungs where only discarded words were kept. 

Jaskier stopped breathing for a moment, afraid that he might miss another if he didn’t stop to pay attention, but there was no further sound, no request for mercy. He rotated his wrist again, and Geralt shuddered so suddenly and harshly that Jaskier felt as if he’d triggered an earthquake.

“Again,” the Witcher hissed. 

Jaskier smoothed a hand over Geralt’s hair, rested a palm against the back of his head and, with what little leverage he had, gently withdrew the tool and felt Geralt shudder with relief when it slid back in.

He did not have the coordination to maintain that pace for long. Geralt pressing back against his hand meant that Geralt no longer pressed forward between his legs, but he could tolerate that aching moss for a few minutes. With one hand on Geralt’s arse and his ankles digging in to keep him close, he held the Witcher in place and moved the obsidian object quickly and shallowly, mimicking a recognizably human movement that Geralt had responded favourably to under other circumstances in times past. He gauged the effectiveness of his technique and the force that he exerted by the heaviness of Geralt’s breath and the way Geralt’s hips drove forward.

It was very effective.

Geralt, to his credit, tried quite valiantly to continue fucking Jaskier, but it was no use. Sensation had overwhelmed him. Sense had fled.

His motion grew frantic. 

Jaskier, whose legs and back and wrist ached from the exertion and the unfamiliar lines of tension the position drew, was almost relieved when Geralt began to pick up his pace, and he hardly had to do anything except hold his hand in place; in fucking Jaskier, Geralt was effectively fucking himself at the same time, and when he drove in so hard that it was nearly painful and wheezed pitiably at climax, Jaskier pressed the tool into him and tipped his head down for a kiss that contained nothing animal, and everything desperately, primally human.

Geralt hadn’t pulled away. Jaskier’s insides felt suddenly like they’d caught fire.

Unable to sustain the position any longer, Jaskier withdrew the polished end and let it fall onto the bed, where the thing rolled down the dip in the mattress and settled, impossibly hot, against his thigh. Without a word, Geralt slid his hands beneath Jaskier’s hips and started to move again. There was something to be said for Witcher stamina, but Geralt did not need to explain that the world had become crystalline. He was driven by that same deadly precision again, and fucked quickly and efficiently. By now most men would have rolled onto their sides and begun to snore. Geralt’s predator senses had resurfaced and he was aiming to kill.

Jaskier finished in mere seconds. He left new welts across the span of Geralt’s shoulder blades, and did not have the presence of mind to feel guilty about it in the least.

The moment Geralt rolled off, Jaskier stretched out his legs and rolled onto his stomach. His spine gave an alarming series of crunches that, impossibly, contributed to his overall satisfaction, and he exhaled shakily into the flattened hill of pillows and tried to catch his breath; although his eyes were closed, and although his mind had temporarily begun to drift in a sea of pleasant, weightless nothingness, Jaskier was not alarmed at all when one of Geralt’s heavy forearms thumped atop his back and rested there.

“It’s obsidian.”

Geralt’s breath was beginning to slow, and as Jaskier floated along the rhythm of it, something popped loudly in the room; it must have been the fire, for Jaskier could still feel the body-warmed glass against his leg, and had enough basic knowledge of stone and glass to know that it was sturdy enough to withstand at least a few more uses. If anything shattered with Geralt fucking him like that, it would be his focus and resolve, and not the obsidian.

He turned his head to the side and felt Geralt’s fingers scrape gently over the hairline at the base of his skull.

“Lovely choice, dear,” he mumbled.

He was referring only in part to the glass.


End file.
